Things that I wish I had done…

Last time I read Rumi I cried like a baby, because I had a lot of things to do right about then. But, then I never could have. I was sitting alone in a corner with nothing going on at all. With my thoughts running amok and to every place. I sat there with my wonders fleeting, and I realized  how powerful and how helpless I have been in the past years of my life. I had the thing what we call a “sublime moment” but, I wasn’t powerful, I was humbled. I was humbled and broken, and I was happier than ever, only the happiness was a simple void wrapped around the sadness that tugged ever so tightly at my chest…

This post is a part of the #SecondChance activity at BlogAdda in association with MaxLife Insurance”.

My list of regrets runs long and it is not something that I would like to go around showing to every one of my friends. But, then they know, well, some of them do anyway…

One of my deepest regrets is a recent enough but, then well I have to talk about it.

Not going on that solo trip

I have been suffering recently from the writer’s block that is breaking my heart and I need to talk about it. I need to take a solo trip to somewhere that is far off to reconcile with myself but, then something or the other always comes before me. Something is always there, the invariable large block of responsibility carefully assembled by the university and the family that tugs your shirt sleeve every time you packed your bags. The shoestring budget which you juggle on throughout the time you are outside the place. Mostly, though it is the fear of being able to make it, the fear of being lost and unimportant in the course of things…
I met a lot of wanderers this time around though, a lot of people that inspire me to hit the trails and probably I will. Not only because I need to write poetry again, but, because I need to feel at one with myself, because that feeling has gone away with everything that has been happening around me.

To apologize to him

I won’t say his name, I really won’t, but, his he was there when I was breaking off. When I was a glass structure hammered on by society, and he taught me English. He taught me that I was good even if I tried with all my heart to try to stow away all compliments in the “Lies” folder that is at my back of my mind even now. He taught me that being different does not take things away from you, and he taught me literature like no other teacher had. By giving me freedom, he finally made me sit down and analyze the things I was reading.
And I left…
I left because things went awry and I got into a college that would then proceed to enslave me for 6 months or more with their doctrines. i broke open my heart and got depressed and I had left him alone. After asking him questions and finishing up most of the stuff I did not really return to write the last assignment.
I did consider it important, but, I just didn’t have it in me anymore. The college had finally hammered out the passion for literature that I had harbored through thick and thin during the last two years at my school. And I only regained it later, when I decided that I am not going back, no matter what happened. No matter what they did, no matter how much they tried to pull me down to their level.
But, I never apolozised, I never did look back and say sorry and I wish to study at his college someday but, the oceans pose a challenge, and I cannot cross it without gathering up everything I have. But, I will some day.
I shall stand before him and cry, and I would go down on my knees and kiss his feet, and perhaps that would be creepy but, I can move on then, and never ever look back. That would be it, a closing of the chapter…

Writing and Publishing that novel

This is important for every single author who writes novels. I am writing my novel that I wish to publish, something that is small but, special to me nevertheless and it isn’t cutting it yet, but, I am sure it will soon enough. Soon enough I would be running around the planes of madness with love in my veins and I would be pulsing open a music track that somehow fills others with deeper life. And I would have written my novel.
I would have let it spurn out and burn a word onto the people’s minds and I would have had fun while doing it. And some day I would…
But, right now, I struggle from day to day because I cannot find words that would be apt enough to sing along the space. And I am trying harder but, sometimes it just does not connect. I am trying

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The Indian Wedding Part – 1

My cousin got married this Republic Day (apologies for being hella busy) and it was quite awesome apart from some parts that did irk me. Indian weddings are a scene to observe, something you would remember for the greater part of your life. They are huge, all-encompassing scenarios where you meet all kinds of characters.
The main deal of this wedding was that it was a love marriage, and the lovers were together for about 6 years before they finally decided to tie the knot.
So, basically the husband looked like a goofy teenager for the first time that day, he was smiling like only a boy who knows the entire deal can. Also he was nervous as hell when it all happened.

However, let me start from the beginning, when the entire show was not yet, underway. You remember that line in “27 Dresses”?
“It’ll be an incisive look at how the wedding industry has transformed something: That should be an important rite of passage into nothing more than a corporate revenue stream. In a fun, upbeat, you know, cheerful way.”
Well, Indian marriages are an industry within themselves, and while we might not generate billions, it is only because the prices are a lot cheaper this side of the ocean.

So, when we started, that was about 6 months ago. We were buying stuff frantically and decorating the gifts that we’d present to them (53 bloody trays that we gave to them), something that continued up till the night of the reception. We also brought a thousand and other things that are needed during the wedding.
Just the day before the wedding I had brought 30 kilos of onions with my mum for the cooking on the wedding day. 250 people were going to come and we hadn’t a moment to waste.

But, then when the day started, we had a hundred other things to do. We went around the entire community, getting stuff that would be needed. A decoration with oil floating that couldn’t be made to shake (Shree in Bengali), Gas cylinders from two different locations, Chicken from the local bazaar, the most elderly person of the house from the bride’s home.
Me and my cousin worked relentlessly, to the point that we really didn’t have any rest for the two days that the wedding took place in. As did my cousin’s (the one who was getting married) friends.

But, then the juxtaposed relationships breaking into colours do not stop even a little. We move on from that one snotty relative who does not stop from picking apart anything that is going on around the space, to the little child who is hyperactive and running around all day. We see the elderly couple who are crying and bidding goodbye to their granddaughter, we see the mother who works off even if she has been physically hurt and advised not to run around the entire place. The caterer who is trying his best to keep everyone in line, the entire bunch of men in the house who would not plan anything and just follow orders.

But, everything is worth it for the small moments. When the bride is up on the stage getting turmeric rubbed over her face and she breaks in a giggle and every one of the friends and brothers give off a unified laughter themselves. When they sit together for food and laugh like heck.

But, that’s not even the wedding, that is just the way it starts off…

A Confession…

Dearest world,

I am an bisexual, and hence, I am underrepresented in the society. I will not have movies made about myself, I would not get a whole lot of articles pertaining to my issues, and most people would just take me as a person who is either confused, or just faking it. So, according to that, I would have to discount the feeling and want I have felt towards the male peers to want to belong, and to appear less gay I would have to forcibly act their definition of straight because that is the only way that I do know right now. How many days has it been? I try to fake my sexuality by telling them that I am in a relationship so that they do not notice that I really do not notice the women around me as much as I notice the men. Because after some stuff, I really wish to be with men right now. They do not understand or realise that, and any reference I make to that is probably going to lose me my friends.
I won’t lie, I have tested the waters before. Some guys, they didn’t react violently but, I could see themselves create a distance. And one girl just said “Go away fake gay guy”. Maybe, it was a joke, but, that hurts. It hurts even when I try to push it out of my mind and try to see the world as a beautiful place.

Because the world isn’t really beautiful is it?
We’re the ashes of a burnt out place, and we’re sad.

I conform to the standards of the people in my hostel by cracking sexist jokes, and pretending to like that. How can you talk about sex with a girl you have just met who you cannot try and find attractive no matter how much I try. And sometimes I feel in place with them, walking alone while they discuss women, I wonder what they find so attractive sometimes, even though I have loved them before.
Then, I found her attractive because of her voice and this warmth she carried.

Now, in the girl that my hostel mate constantly talks about, I find the make up skills fascinating because she has nailed an eyeliner job.
Even when I was out for a Christmas celebrations, I must have seemed annoying as I talked a whole lot of time about make up with the girls.

But, then I dry up my tears and I walk into the twist of everything again.

I am a bisexual.
I will not have a book written about my experience tomorrow.
I would not be accepted by my gay peers and I would not hold them accountable.
I would be shunned by my straight peers and I’d love them all the same.
I’d laugh because watching a movie with an actor with a different sexuality than mine is very easy.
I would make jokes that leave me scarred with my hostel mates because I have to belong.
I would enjoy the silent moments of warmth when I can cling to someone’s arm.
I would probably get my first heartbreak from a straight guy.

Tell me world, can you still be proud, when all these things you accept leave you feeling inadequate? Tell me if you are going to be by my side when the world falls apart?

Your’s
Me

My Mother

My mother is pretty much the only woman I have idolised in my life to the fullest degree. She is beautiful, a good mother and the bread-earner for our family. But, she does not stop at that alone. She is this phenomenal woman who handles most of her family as well as juggles her work and she has never let it show. How did it come to that? I have to go back to when it all began.
This post is a part of #UseYourAnd activity at BlogAdda in association with Gillette Venus

IMG_20150102_194430She lost her father at an tender age and then she had to choose. Between becoming the person who wailed endlessly about their struggles and the person who succeeded. She thankfully, chose the latter. She perhaps didn’t fit the role of an ideal wife which the husbands of the time wanted. Yet, she kept on, she married all her sisters, 3 of them and stayed doing her work. Working as a teacher at first and then as a clerk in Railways.

Perhaps that is the main lesson I got from her, the fact that she kept on regardless of the various problems that always came up.

While, growing up, she was never the conventional mother to me. She would be away for work and I would see her rarely. Yet, she was always there for my moment. And I cried on her Saree after I left my first school because of another admission at that moment. I followed her when I got into the newer school.

Even when I got into an accident and broke my leg, even when it looked like the world was losing hope. She, despite her office life kept with me, she became both. The person people admired in office and the mother I loved.

Till today, and I am quite old now. I never do speak against my mother in a loud voice. And her voice of quiet, her expression of hurt is enough to make me stop saying anything at all. She is a phenomenal woman, and sometimes, I am sure, even if the whole world doesn’t look when she walks the road, I would. Because she is my showstopper. And she is my mum.

She is the woman who never chose between #or and #and, she personified #and from the moment she took charge

“Missing Person” – A review

192378Sometimes you meet this novel, this drunk stranger who stops in front of you when you are walking on the street. Now, this one isn’t drunk on itself, it does not speak of the exquisite changes it holds, it doesn’t have a magnificent record to show when you look at it, but, it breathes in fire. It is drunk on it’s own language and sometimes when it loses itself, it speaks of beautiful things, it is almost spiritual. And you are intrigued, and heart broken, for the largest time you just stare, and listen.
He leaves soon, perhaps too soon, and then you stare into space.
You forgot to even ask his name.

This novel, my first my Modiano, who won the Nobel Prize this year is a gem. And for the longest time as it ended, I looked at the last line, trying to make sense of it. I could feel it tearing apart my heart, there was so much it was to be and so many things but, nothing had really measured up had it?
There was still this thumping that wanted more pages but, it was there.
And then I came in terms with it.

The greatest novel is the one which converses with you and leaves you open, for the very nature of art makes it a mirror on self, so when the narrator asks himself “and do not our lives dissolve into the evening as quickly as this grief of childhood?”, you ask the question to yourself, and it is answered with silence. You introspect for days at an end, sometimes you just look out onto the world from the verandah and you feel the change coming from inside.

I had never read Modiano before, and I do not know if I will read him after this, but, for now, he is there, and I have questions I need to answer.

I caught poetry

Last few days caught me visiting a religious place, somewhere people go to wash away their sins though, I barely washed away any of mine. Then, while on my way back, in a train that often slowed down, I caught poetry. it hit me like an avalanche and left me quite broken I fear. But, here are some stanzas from this work in progress nevertheless.

“You left me broken in the shadows
So much that I couldn’t even figure out
How to make the noodles anymore
Because I always made them for you
And the grocery shops seem distant
And my car always misses the road to that store”

Sometimes romance leaves a scar and we become terribly afraid of all that is going around us for the same. this is about a void left by a past lover I believe.

“You would pull me up from the chair
And I’d still refuse to speak at all
And even if I do speak, you’d know the words
I wonder why nicknames matter so much now
Yet, when we lay together they were just a bother”

And more and more. It has been haunting me now. I fell in love with someone a few years back but, then I was in the process of denying myself the pleasures of life because I quite didn’t understand. Now, I refuse to do so again, and if I do meet him, perhaps the meeting would warrant a kiss that went deeper than my veins.